


Foothold (or, five weeks on the Enterprise)

by Leyenn



Series: Dreams of Honest Horn [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: 5 Things, 5 Times, F/M, Female Friendship, Imzadi, Past Relationship(s), Secret Relationship, Telepathic Bond, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 12:09:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12168606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyenn/pseuds/Leyenn
Summary: Gaining traction in a new world.





	1. Stardate 41161.3

The first night he spent aboard the _Enterprise_ , he didn't even know she was here. The second, his sense of her still burned so bright from the sudden reconnection that there could have been forty-two decks between them and he would have had the same dreams of her.

He's been aboard seventy-six hours - and the brightness of her has just about dimmed to that quiet but constant presence he used to be so used to - when he rolls over in bed and for just a moment, she feels so close that he expects to put his hand on warm skin instead of crisp new sheets.

It's faintly like jerking awake: he opens his eyes into the dark and it's a shock to find he's alone. For a moment, he thinks it's just his mind reaching for hers; he was always better at it when he was relaxed, and he definitely hasn't relaxed much aboard this ship until now. Maybe it's just his subconscious remembering how to open up to hers.

Then there's a barely-there wave of tension through his head - a feeling he remembers as Deanna frowning, and he could never sense that unless she was close - along with something else he's not sure what to make of…

He doesn't realise he's waiting, or that he's holding his breath, until he can suddenly see spots as well as stars in front of his eyes. He lets the breath out in a rush and rolls over, burying his face in the pillow, and closes his eyes again.

His door chimes.

It sounds different to the _Hood_ , enough that for just a moment he's not sure what the sound is until his brain catches up to where he is. He rolls over again and out of bed, rubbing at his eyes as he pulls himself to his feet. The chime doesn't sound again, but he has the strange and absolute certainty that it should. He runs his fingers back through his hair and steps into the living area.

"Come in?"

The door slides open.

No one comes in, but the frown in his head deepens like a fist clenching - not in anger but surprise and a sudden tightening of control, and then Deanna takes a slow step into the room.

He frowns sleepily, aware that she must sense his confusion and sudden concern - why is she coming to his quarters in the middle of the night when they should both be asleep -

She looks up at him. He can feel her taking him in, and he can't help just standing there and letting her.

And then she laughs.

He frowns, his own this time. "What's so funny?"

Deanna shakes her head in bemusement as she looks back at him. "This ship… who made the cabin assignments?"

He blinks. "What?" He's got no idea where to take that. "I have no idea. Probably a computer algorithm-"

And then it dawns on him that they really should both be in bed, that it really is the middle of the night - or at least the gamma shift - and that she's very, very much not dressed for walking the corridors.

In his defence, not only is he still half asleep, but the sight of Deanna in a nightgown of Betazoid silk, barefoot, with her hair only loosely pulled back rather than in one of the intricate headbands she's fond of: he's seen her in the flesh like this far more than he has in any Starfleet uniform. It's not odd for it to take him a moment to put the pieces in place.

She can obviously tell, the moment he realises, because she actually puts a hand over her mouth to try and stifle the laughter. He can't help it: he breaks into a helpless grin of his own and rubs the rest of the sleep out of his eyes with one hand.

"Where…"

She leans backwards against his desk. "This deck. Oh-nine-ten."

He quickly orients himself in his head. Wesley Crusher probably has the entire ship's blueprint memorised, but Will's had other things on his mind lately. Even so, it doesn't take him long, even to think it over twice just to be sure. It's only a matter of which way to turn.

No wonder he felt like she was there with him, when there's only the length of their respective quarters and an emergency bulkhead between his bed and hers.

Deanna ducks her head, fighting not to laugh again and failing. He glares at her in mock annoyance.

She lifts her chin and gives him a look. "Oh, Will, you have to admit..."

"I thought you were _here_ ," he says, exasperated. The laughter in her eyes dims just a little and tender sympathy wraps around his mind like a warm embrace, the threads of her that wrap around his heart tightening to pull him towards her. There's no demand in it, only the familiar feeling of being drawn to her like a magnet, the offer of her touch beckoning him in.

He goes willingly, closing the steps between them as she reaches out and strokes her hand up the length of his chest to settle over his heart.

"I am here," she says, soft. He smiles, rueful.

"How am I supposed to sleep every night with you thirty feet away?"

She reaches up and brushes his hair off his forehead, fingertips feather-light against his temple. He can't help the way his eyes slip closed, just for a moment.

"You always slept fine when I was here, before." Her hand cups his cheek. "I think you'll manage again," and they're exactly the words that could be a gentle brush-off, that he'd dread hearing, if he couldn't feel their real meaning: that gentle but firm pressure of her settling into a corner of his mind so deep he can't even touch it, only feel that she's there and that whatever happens between them now, she has no intention of leaving again.

It's like finding something lost after forgetting it entirely, a sense of grounding that's been missing for too long. He suddenly feels like he could sleep peacefully for a week and whoever wrote the algorithm that decided this, he needs to find them and give them a commendation for work well done.

Deanna smiles sleepily, out loud and deep inside his mind. "We should go back to bed," and she stretches up to kiss him very softly on the cheek.

He smiles back and presses a goodnight kiss of his own to the top of her head, and then he lets her go.

When he climbs back into bed and tugs the sheets back up, the bed doesn't feel big or empty, and he doesn't expect another body against his: Deanna's sleepy relaxation just uncurls in that quiet corner of his mind and he's back to sleep in minutes.

**


	2. Stardate 41170.7

Deanna's already seated, alone, at the table in the Captain's mess when he arrives for their first full crew dinner. She's wearing a sleeveless dress patterned in vibrant orange and deep green that gathers at her shoulders and drops low behind her back, and she's taken to putting her hair up on duty over the last few days, the way she used to in the height of the summer heat, but now she's let it down for the evening and it flows in soft black curls over her shoulders.

He's smiling affectionately without even realising it, and that's before she says, "Good evening, Will," warmly and without even turning around.

He lets his smile broaden into a grin. "Hi." She's smiling, too, when he can see her face. He pulls out the chair across from her. "You're here early. Getting the 'feel' of the place?"

"You know me so well," she says, teasing. A light touch brushes against his mind and settles there, like gentle fingertips resting on his pulse.

"Well enough, I think," he says, keeping it light. So much of what they are to each other might still be in limbo, but he's more than willing to let her relaxation lead his mood for the evening if she is.

Deanna rewards him with another smile as he takes his seat. He leans over for the pitcher of water in the middle of the table between them. The glass is chilled against his fingers as he pours a glass, offers with a gesture to top hers off too, and does when she holds it out.

It feels like it should be awkward, like one of them should say something - and yet somehow, when the door slides open again minutes later, he realises they've just been sitting there smiling at each other for that whole time without saying a word, out loud or otherwise. Deanna actually jumps at the sound of the door, and he fights down a grin at the faint blush that colors her cheeks, sharing the realisation that she's been so focused on him, even six other people arriving hasn't registered in her mind.

He's getting the sense, deep down, that this is going to be both the easiest reunion they could have had, and absolutely anything but.

 

*

 

"This wine is lovely, Captain," Deanna says, after they've eaten a main course he'd have been happy to put his own name to, and they're all enjoying a rich, fruity red that apparently comes from the Captain's very own family vineyards. Picard smiles along the table at her.

"I’ll pass on your compliments, Counselor, thank you."

Will is pretty certain the Captain doesn't know exactly how much of a compliment that is, from a woman who's been tasting wine since she was in single digits and is used to some of the finest things the galaxy has to offer, but he also isn't sure they're anywhere near comfortable enough that he can say anything. It does make him think just how strange it's going to be, to know _so much_ about Deanna and comparatively so little about anyone else in this room, on this whole ship…

"So, Will." Beverly Crusher's smile is mischievous behind her glass. "How is it you two," she darts a glance at Deanna, "know each other?"

Deanna looks at him: there's that trying-to-fool-her-mother look on her face and he must be at least trying to emulate it, but they're obviously out of practice because he catches a grin on Geordi's face and Beverly adds, even more mischievous; "Oh, come on, it's obvious you do."

Well, he's been without this for three years - he shouldn't be shocked that the sparks between them are visible, not when he can feel them under his skin. Still, it's somehow never dawned on him that he'd ever have to answer that question, and he suddenly has absolutely no idea how to start. On Betazed no one needed to ask, and he's never really mentioned her to anyone between then and now - whether because he was afraid to or afraid no one would understand, he's never been sure.

Deanna rescues him with a soft clear of her throat, a smile playing on her lips, and says simply, "Will was stationed on Betazed while I was finishing my Master's degree."

Her voice is even level, as if they just crossed paths somewhere one day, just became friends somehow like other people do. Not a hint in the words that they saw each other naked before they even spoke and that's how they'll always think of each other; that they spun each other’s lives completely out of orbit and into the deepest, purest love either of them have ever felt; that they've done the most beautiful, intimate, filthy things together, to each other...

"Ah, yes," Picard says, looking at him with a mild curiosity, completely oblivious to the thoughts running through his head. "You were decorated twice by Starfleet during that posting, weren't you, Number One? For exceptional bravery and for valor, as I recall from your record."

He remembers exactly what constituted _exceptional bravery_ and tries to keep his voice as level as Deanna's when he says, "Yes, sir." Of course there's no way Picard can know - Lwaxana had Deanna's name kept well out of the reports, had enough pull to ensure that even Starfleet doesn't have a public record of who exactly among the Betazoid aristocracy was involved in that particular Sindareen raid - but it still feels like he's admitting to a secret sin, because it's just never quite felt like a commendation he deserves.

Deanna's light touch in his mind pulses gently, a golden warmth for just a moment. _My hero,_ and the thought is as grateful and proud as it is amused, makes him remember that she's always felt differently - that he _did_ save her life, even if he's always felt that was more than reward enough.

"I've never been to Betazed," Beverly says, taking another appreciative sip of wine. "I hear it's beautiful."

"Whatever you've heard doesn't do it justice." He smiles over at Deanna and tilts his glass to her, just the tiniest bit. "They don't call it the jewel in the outer crown for nothing."

"How long were you planetside?"

"Two years, in the end." It feels too simple, saying it, even if it's the truth. “It should have been a layover, but then the _Hood_ took on an Orion cruiser and lost, and the idea of six months waiting in drydock didn't exactly appeal."  

Picard nods. "I recall Captain DeSoto was rather chagrined to have to rescind your assignment."

"He got me in the end," he says, with a grin. "But Starfleet decided to overhaul the planetary defence net at Betazed, and it was good command experience.”

He doesn't say how much more it was, than just that. That if a few weeks of Deanna in his life was enough to shake his soul, the two years they got before the _Potemkin_ changed him in ways he's not sure anyone around this table, or any other Human he knows, would quite be able to understand - ways he definitely can't express in words.

Not that the one person who he needs to understand him has ever needed words at all. Deanna may be listening intently as the conversation turns to other things, but he can very definitely feel her smile on him through the light touch against his mind, shining on those threads of her tangled inside him that have never gone away.

 

**


	3. Stardate 41187.2

The job of Ship's Counselor might be relatively new in the fleet, but it's not simple. Alongside her bridge shifts, Deanna immediately has a multi-skilled team to manage; diplomatic and first contact projects to oversee; weekly liaisons with the medical, diplomatic and linguistic science teams; a thousand psychological profiles to review and continuous crew evaluations and rotations to help co-ordinate.

The work is an order of magnitude above even what she expected. There are some small mercies: being the first one in the job, she can at least organise things to her liking; her team are excellent, and they begin to gel together within weeks; and, despite how complicated her personal feelings might be, she's quickly thankful that Will Riker is her first officer. He's thorough, helpful, optimistic and demands excellence from everything he does, just like she remembers. They work together just as well as she thought they would.

It's still weeks until she feels on top of things enough to take some time for catching up with her personal communiques. She almost doesn't, except that the three-figure number beside her private mail is only going to get larger if she doesn't tackle it now.

At least the replicators aboard the _Enterprise_ are state of the art. Deanna orders up the most decadent hot chocolate in the menu and settles in on her couch for the long haul.

A first sweep clears out the ignored notifications of her transfer, of her personal belongings being shipped and received aboard, and all the other information that comes with moving home, job and ship all at once. After that come the dozens of congratulations and well-wishes from old classmates and colleagues on her new and prestigious assignment; there are even a few from her university days. She writes a quick, general thank you and sends it back to each one, choosing only a few to promise she'll try and catch up with them soon.

There's a somewhat more formal communique from the First House, so she spends a few minutes crafting the appropriate reply in ritual Cyndri, though she does add a personal note at the end for the First Daughter's eyes only. She doesn't expect there'll be any further reply - Kala's schedule makes the _Enterprise_ look like a stroll in the gardens - but she knows it'll be appreciated.

By the time she's cleaning up the last of the cream with one fingertip, she's on to the handful of subscriptions to journals that interest her personally rather than professionally, and the publication announcement of Kathella's newest novel, all of which she resolves to read the next time she finds a few hours spare.

That leaves the seventeen messages from her mother, and a letter from Chandra.

The part of her that will never stop wanting to be a good, traditional Betazoid daughter considers calling her mother immediately. They're only two sectors away from home, still close enough for subspace without a delay. She glances at the Betazed standard time set under the ship's time and stardate on her PADD; the Betazed meridian runs through Medara City and it's still early enough there to expect someone to be awake.

On the other hand, it's nearly zero-hundred hours here, and that definitely isn't early enough for her to cope with making that call.

Instead she says, "Computer, open a channel to Betazed. Medara City, the main residence of the Third House of Betazed."

" _*Working,*_ " the computer says, that voice that keeps reminding her of her mother except Lwaxana Troi has never in her life sounded that pleasantly compliant. " _*Connected.*_ "

A bright smile breaks across Chandra's face the moment she appears. " _*Deanna!*_ "

She couldn't stop the answering smile if she wanted to. "Hi. How's Betazed these days?"

Chandra rolls her eyes. " _*Betazed never changes. How are you? You're on the_ Enterprise _?*_ "

"Yes." She curls up comfortably into the corner of the couch. "Nearly a month now. I'm sorry I haven't called before, you wouldn't believe how crazy things have been."

" _*Your mother-*_ "

"Oh, don't tell me," she says, quickly. "I don't have the energy tonight. I promise I'll call her tomorrow and put you all out of your misery."

" _*You'd better,*_ " Chandra says, but mercifully she lets it go at that. Deanna watches as she curls up, too, in the window seat they used to share to just sit and talk together. Over her shoulder, the sun is setting across Medara in a brilliant pink-and-orange sky, and Deanna feels a pang of homesickness in her chest.

" _*So tell me all about the new assignment,*_ " Chandra says, eagerly, and Deanna's grateful to have her attention pulled back. " _*What's the ship like? How's the Captain - what was his name-*_ "

"Jean-Luc Picard." She smiles. "I worked with him a little on Earth, he's a good man. Gentle, especially for a starship captain. Charismatic, very confident, but not at all arrogant. His mind is… relaxing, in an odd way. Quiet and controlled, for a Human. I think I'm going to enjoy working with him here - and the _Enterprise_ is beautiful. I wish I could show you around." She takes a deep breath, and then adds, “Will's here.”

Chandra's eyes widen. The next moment of silence is why, she realises, she didn't tell anyone that she knew she was going to be serving with him; because no one would have needed telepathy to notice how obviously she was fooling herself. At least there's sympathy and understanding alongside the surprise in Chandra’s face. “ _*How is it?*_ ”

She sits back and lets out that breath, realising she's been holding it in. "Confusing." And because she can tell Chandra, because she _needs_ to tell someone; "Good. Very good. I didn't know..." She stops herself, because that's not really true. "I’d been ignoring how much I missed him."

" _*I could have told you that,*_ " Chandra says. Of course she could have; Deanna knew that when she decided to keep it a secret. " _*So?*_ "

She blinks. "So?"

" _*How is he? I haven't heard from him since he left Betazed.*_ "

She smiles, and it's grateful for the ease of the question, and fond and affectionate and she can't help it. "The same."

Chandra's smile widens. " _*Hug him hello for me.*_ " She looks slightly speculative. " _*You have hugged him hello, at least?*_ "

Deanna laughs softly. "Yes." She's almost glad her mind is unreadable from here, because even the question immediately makes her remember - and it's a memory now, only days old - the warmth of him, the feel of his arms around her, of leaning into him and how his heartbeat feels against her cheek, the red-bronze depth of his thoughts tangled with hers…

" _*Oh, you more than missed him,*_ " Chandra says knowingly, and Deanna feels heat rise in her cheeks. Chandra's gaze turns sympathetic. " _*Have you talked about-*_ "

"A little. Not all of it." She sighs at Chandra's expression. "We will, it's just…" There's a lump in her throat, suddenly. "He wants to give me time, I think. And I don't want it to turn into a shouting match. I want…"

But she can't say what she wants, because she's honestly not sure.

And then Chandra says, gently, " _*He's your imzadi, Deanna, you're allowed to still be in love with him.*_ "

It takes hearing the words to realise: she hasn't let herself think that. Not just since she saw him again, but for so long - she couldn't have him, or what they had, so she hasn't just told herself it was over, that she could get on with her life: she's pretended it also didn't matter. Pretended her heart doesn't still long for that, or that she doesn't still love him exactly the way she did the moment she set eyes on him.

It feels freeing to hear someone, someone she trusts, tell her that it's okay to stop pretending.

Chandra chuckles at her silence. " _*One day, you're going to learn to ignore your rational mind where Will Riker is concerned, and it's going to be better for all of us.*_ "

She frowns. "Chandra…"

" _*I'm not going to push, I'm not your mother.*_ " Chandra smiles gently. " _*So, tell me more about this beautiful new ship of yours, I want to hear everything.*_ "

Deanna smiles back, and starts from the beginning.

 

**


	4. Stardate 41190.2

Deanna's office is a calm, quiet space on the other side of deck eight. By the time he sets foot inside, a month after they leave Farpoint, she's already added a few subtle personal touches: a smaller copy of one of her favourite meditation paintings from the Art Museum, a piece of sculpture replicated to a famous late twenty-second century Betazoid design. It's just enough to immediately remind him of the space she used to practice in back h- back on Betazed.

It feels like a _safe_ space, which is exactly what she's intending and exactly what they need - somewhere to work together, in private, but without the faint charge in the air of sitting in her quarters or his when they're not sure at all where they really sit with each other, still. He's sleeping better than he has in three years and there's an ease to working with her every day that he somehow didn't expect; on the other hand, the hurt of that separation is still raw just under the surface, and he's afraid - of falling completely and of hurting her again in about equal measure.  

On the third hand he'd be a fool to try and convince to either of them that he doesn't still want her - in his life, his bed, his mind, his soul - and he knows she feels the same way, and that's all even more complicated here and now than it ever was before.

They're running through the requirements for crew evaluations, in her office, when he finally thinks _it_ too loudly for her to not notice. He feels the moment she does: when she stops, looks up from her PADD and folds her hands into her lap over the back of it.

"Something's on your mind."

He can't deny it. The fact that she can tell that is, in fact, exactly the point. He puts his own PADD down on the couch beside him.

"Yeah." He really hopes she takes this the right way. He feels his way along a thread into her thoughts to try and make sure she understands why he's asking. "If I - is it presumptuous of me to file for another class four?"

Her smile turns fond, and relief washes over his mind. "No, of course not. I think that's very sensible." A faint embarrassment flushes her cheeks. "I should have thought-"

"It's okay." He lets out the breath he's not noticed himself holding. "I'll send the paperwork to the Captain."

"Do you need me to do anything?"

He picks up the PADD and presses for a search. "You'll need to co-sign, for you." She wasn't in Starfleet, the last time he had to do this, but it dawns on him that that actually makes it easier. He'd never considered that being fellow officers would actually make things _less_ complicated.

"Just send it to me," Deanna says, and he pushes a little of that relief back to her as he pulls up the file.

 

*

 

Predictably, Picard calls him into the Ready Room within twelve hours of the paperwork going in.

"What is this, Number One?"

He shifts on his feet. There isn't anything else the question can mean, and he knows Picard _has_ to at least have guessed at the background for this, but it still isn't any less awkward than he anticipated.

He does notice that the Captain waits patiently for him to actually look at the screen. "It's a class four security exception, sir," he says, in a tone that's carefully mild.

Picard raises an eyebrow. "Yes, it is. With your name on it."

"Yes sir."

"Co-signed by Counselor Troi, I see."

"Yes, sir."

"Has something happened that I should know about?"

"No, sir." Not exactly like lying to his commanding officer, but a little too close for comfort. "Not exactly," he corrects himself.

"I see." Picard steeples his fingers lightly together, leaning back in his chair.

He tries to remind himself that this was a good idea, even if it feels like the most awkward thing in the world. "Permission to speak completely candidly, sir? Off the record?"

Picard gestures to the empty chair across the desk. "Sit down, Will."

He does, gratefully. At least Picard also looks like he'd rather sit through a court martial than have this conversation, too. He's still trying to find the best way to phrase what he needs to explain - still trying to put what he needs to explain into words - when Picard clears his throat and leans forward again.

"Will." A slightly pregnant pause. "I may seem a little… stoic, when it comes to personal relationships…"

"The thought hadn't occurred to me, sir," he says, with a half-smile. Picard at least smiles back wryly.

"Nevertheless, Starfleet does not object to relationships between officers, so long as they do not impact on your duties. I happen to approve of that policy."

It's a relief to hear, though he's not going to say that, because for this it hardly makes a difference at all. "That's not exactly it, sir."

Picard shifts in his chair. "Exactness seems to be a problem here."

He can't help a rueful twitch of his lips. "Now that is true." Maybe he should just try and explain this in Human terms, if he can. If that's even possible. He tries the simplest way to say it, that does it no justice at all. "Captain. You should know that… Deanna and I were together, when I served on Betazed."

"I had surmised something of the sort," Picard says, and there's even a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Yes sir." He can't really sound surprised. "If you don't know... close relationships among Betazoids can be very - complex, in a lot of ways. Especially mentally." He gestures to the terminal on the desk between them.

The Captain's eyebrows go up at close to warp speed. "Counselor Troi's record indicates she can only reciprocate telepathy with another telepath. An open channel, so to speak. Not a psi-null species."

He offers a dry smile. "Well, you know what they say about exceptions."

Picard almost looks impressed. "And so you require one."

"Yes, sir." He wonders how much Picard understands about how telepathy truly works, or how appropriate a reaction that is to what he and Deanna have somehow - regardless of anything else, and anything in their future - always been.

"Very well." Picard turns the computer back towards himself. "I will ensure your files are both updated."

He didn't realise he'd be so relieved it's that easy, until it's that easy. He stands up. "Thank you, Captain."

"Number One." He stops and looks back. Picard looks up at him from the computer. "I appreciate your candor in this. Yourself and Counselor Troi."

It's one of those moments that he can see the man behind the Captain's pips, and it's a man he's grateful and pleased to be serving under. He smiles and nods. "Thank you, Captain."

 

**


	5. Stardate 41201.7

It always takes her a while to get used to the atmosphere of being in a new place. Moving to Earth, it took her nearly six months to be used to the constant mental noise of that many people, so different to home: Medara is comparable in size to San Francisco but not in diversity of population and even having lived with the largest mix of off-world Starfleet, students and tourists on Betazed, she was still used to a city of predominantly Betazoid minds.

She got used to Earth, she reminds herself; she can get used to the _Enterprise_. And six weeks in, five since they left Farpoint for deep space, she is getting used to it - but it's still a little odd, especially when she first wakes up and for a moment she has to remember where she is and why it feels like she's floating.

Gravity inside the ship is just fine, of course. It's just that mentally it's as if she's living in a bubble, as if the universe is exactly the size and shape of this ship and her senses just stop at the edges, blank empty space beyond that in every direction like an endless, empty ocean. But inside that bubble, it's never silent, a thousand and more minds constantly awake and dreaming, busy and relaxed, alone and interconnected all at once, like a soul painting that never stays still from one moment to the next.

There are a few telepaths among the crew - mainly Vulcans, but no other Betazoids, and that complete lack of something she's so used to adds another level of strangeness to the mental tableau. She spends some of what free time she has reading up on the experiences of different psionic species in space, in Starfleet and elsewhere; it helps to know this isn't just how _she_ feels, that many other people have been here, too. When she finds herself reading _Practical Telepathy for Long Term Space Travel_ , a text that really doesn't care how she feels but is full of useful techniques to try settling her mind, she's suddenly reminded of home - of lying in the moonlight in the warmth of a summer night with Will pressed against her, and the memory wakes a whole mixture of emotions inside her.

It is good to have him nearby. As much as she's here on her own merits and for her own reasons, it helps to have something at least mostly familiar in the midst of all the new and strange sensation. Even on days she doesn't see him physically at all, she can come back to her cabin and it might not be the same as coming home to him at night, but it's not entirely _not_ , either.

Of course he's changed, in some ways - it's been three years and she's not the woman he left behind, either - but the visceral _sense_ of him is just the same as it ever was, easy to pick out of the babble of other minds and often harder not to, still as impossible to untangle from her own mind as ever.

Perhaps because of that, she makes a concerted effort to seek out other friends too. She invites Tasha Yar to Ten Forward after one quiet bridge shift, that sixth week aboard, and they spend hours talking about the ship, the encounters they had at Farpoint, where they've served before and a dozen other things. Tasha's mind is quiet in ways that no one would imagine, a quiet born of necessity, of formative years spent hiding and being alone; and yet her emotions are clear and defined, a woman who knows herself well and approaches life with a fierceness that belies the restraint inside. Deanna feels like they could easily be friends, like they almost are already. She learns that Tasha, too, is swamped with work and sleeping short hours, but excited and enjoying the challenge; that Tasha too is buoyed by Picard's choosing her for this assignment, but uncertain she can live up to his expectations.  

"I just wish I had Commander Riker's confidence," Tasha says, staring out at the stars late into the evening with a much-refilled glass in hand, and Deanna laughs.

The sound gets her Tasha's attention again, a surprised glance, and she smiles. "Shall I tell you a secret?"

Tasha raises an eyebrow, curiosity like a brush of soft scales tickling Deanna's mind. She lets her smile turn a little secretive. "Will feels just as insecure as you do."

Tasha snorts. "I doubt that's true."

"Trust me," she says. "I know him. He's very good at hiding it, that's all."

"You mean he's faking it?" Tasha's disbelief is bright in her voice and in her mind.

She shrugs, sipping her own drink. "Aren't all of us? Just keep on telling yourself you can do it. Eventually you'll make it true."

Tasha laughs. "And here I thought you'd have some amazing psychological trick up your sleeve."

Deanna smiles. "That _is_ the trick."

 

**


End file.
